Daily Grind
by lanri
Summary: It's easy to chafe against Dad's rules. But at this point, all Sam wants is to be saved. ohsam prompt: buried alive


Sam glanced up through his bangs. He knew that set of his father's shoulders. They'd settled in Maine for a few weeks to research nearby hauntings. Sam had managed to convince Dad to enroll him in a few summer classes to make up for a couple he'd missed when they'd had to skip town in May; he had figured that if he were lucky enough, the research would drag out long enough for him to get the majority of them completed.

He wasn't lucky.

"Gear up," John said.

Sam geared up, but not for the haunting. Fights with his dad required all of his strength.

"I have a test tomorrow," he said.

Dean, who'd been shrugging on his jacket, froze.

John's voice became the tense rumble that was herald to a storm. "Excuse me?"

"The haunting isn't time sensitive. No one's even died because of these ghosts, they've only scared people," Sam said, keeping his tone even. "We could take it tomorrow night."

"We have no way of knowing whether someone will wander into the wrong place and die, Sam. Your silly schoolwork can wait," his dad immediately said.

Sam grit his teeth, pushing to his feet.

"Hey, Sammy, you can study in the car, right? And I'm sure you already have everything down, right?"

"Dean, that's not the point, I—"

Dean slid in front of him smoothly, gripping his shoulders. "C'mon, Sam," he said softly. "You've been studying all week."

"Be in the car in five," John barked out.

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but something in the desperate way Dean's eyes flickered made him hold his tongue.

"You can't keep standing up for him," he hissed at Dean. "Why are you always taking his side?"

Dean rubbed his face wearily. "It's the only option I have."

* * *

Sam would have awful eyes by the time he was thirty. He squinted at the folder in the dim light of the flashlight, reading through his history notes.

The Impala jerked to a stop, sending his notes sliding off his lap and into the footwell. Sam scowled. That had been on purpose.

"Let's do this thing," Dean said eagerly.

Sam snorted. They could be hunting a poop monster and Dean would still be excited.

"Sam, you'll take lead on this hunt."

His mood soured even further. "Dad," he said, in a tone that was a hair away from disrespectful. "Why? I know nothing about this case."

"Because otherwise you'll be running laps for the next two weeks straight."

Sam subsided, pulling out his shovel and letting it clang against the side of the Impala.

"Dude, don't take it out on the car," Dean said.

It was going to be a miserable night.

They found the grave easily, and Sam was tasked to dig it on his own.

As he shoveled away, he could hear Dean arguing quietly with their father as they patrolled with salt at the ready. Most likely insisting to help Sam, and a little of the anger ebbed away at the thought.

Arms aching, covered in sweat and dirt, Sam finally struck wood. He levered himself out of the grave, looking expectantly at their father.

No praise was offered for his hard work.

"Why did you get out? You need to crack it open," John said.

Sam's jaw dropped. He looked back down into the grave, shivering a little. He'd only ever helped dig, he'd never . . .

"Dad," Dean interjected. "He dug the grave. I can finish it off."

"No, he needs to learn." John pointed to the grave. "Sam, do it."

He knew better than to argue something serious on the job. Sam swallowed his discomfort, dropping back into the stale air of the grave.

It took him several tries to get through the thick wood. A ghastly skull stared at Sam. His dad and Dean were watching, so he forced the nausea back.

"I need the salt," he said thickly.

It was passed to him without a word. Sam's back was tingling with the fear of a ghostly attack, but for the first time since his career as a hunter, the ghost stayed quiet as he spread salt, and then gasoline.

"Sam." Dean's forearm was offered. Sam took it willingly, arm shaking with effort as he used it to pull himself out of the grave.

Instead of pushing him away, Dean kept him close in an almost-embrace, arm around his chest. Sam shrank back at John's disapproving glare, but Dean's grip remained steady.

"Together," he murmured, holding the matchbox. Sam's shaking hand took three times to light the match. Once he had dropped it, Dean tucked the box back into Sam's pocket.

"That was surprisingly easy," Dean said. His voice was a rumble against Sam's back.

"For once, yes." John shifted. "We need to cover this up again."

"I've got it, Dad."

The instant Dean stepped away, cold shivered over Sam's nerves. He stumbled a little. The smell of ozone filled his nostrils, and the last thing he saw was Dean's wide green eyes.

* * *

The sound of dripping woke Sam. If Dean had left the sink going again, he was going to—

Sam screamed; it was a sound ripped from his throat without warning, that somehow made everything worse. He was in pitch dark, held down by a heavy weight on his chest and his legs. Mindless panic took over, and he scratched helplessly at the rocks holding him down. Eventually, pain and fatigue kept him from continuing; Sam sucked in thin breaths until he was somewhat calm again.

"Dean?" he rasped.

The dripping water was all that answered him.

Sam's hands wandered carefully. The rocks pressing against his chest were large and heavy, unable to be budged.

As much as it hurt, Sam stretched out his hands as far as he could reach around. His hands travelled over rough ground. He found something smooth and brittle. It felt like a . . . like a bone.

"I die, you die."

Sam whimpered in terror. An apparition rose up in front of him—a gaunt, nearly skeletal face with a broken mining cap on his head.

"Trapped for days, died of thirst." The ghost's hand skated over Sam's face, chilling him. "Your turn."

He still had access to his pocket. Sam awkwardly pulled out the box of matches. He lit one, and held it to the bone he'd found.

The miner screamed, flaming out. Sam tried to sigh in relief, but the way he was pinned kept him from being able to do more than pant a little.

* * *

Sam had read something, once, of a man being drive insane by dripping water. Sam was lucky enough that the water wasn't dripping on his body, but the sound felt like fingernails raking across his brain. He had no way of measuring time, and the few times he tried to count, he eventually got distracted.

Maybe this would be where he died. The thought wormed its way inside and wouldn't leave. Dad obviously didn't want him around. More and more, Dean was heading out to bars instead of hanging out with Sam. No one else would miss him.

Sam shifted a little, and his chest ached even more. It caused him to flinch, which suddenly changed the weight distribution. Sam choked as his ribs ground together unnaturally.

He must have passed out, because when he next woke up, he felt even more exhausted and drained.

"Dean," he mumbled.

The dripping water answered him.

With shaking fingers, Sam lit another match. The slight glow was enough to illuminate the entire chamber. Sam bit his lip against a sob, and tried to focus on the light. The miner had been trapped in here, and they had gotten most of his skeleton out and buried him. That meant there was an exit. Probably beyond the pile of rocks that had buried Sam.

It was a fool's hope. Sam let the match burn until it singed his fingertips. If he shut his eyes, he could pretend that it wasn't dark.

* * *

"He's here!"

Something was touching his face, his arms. Sam moaned in pain.

"Sammy, Sammy, open your eyes."

The light was painful after being so long in the dark. Sam pressed them shut again, coughing.

Dean cursed, wiping his lips.

"Dad, he's coughing up blood!"

There was terror in Dean's voice, which drove Sam to open his eyes again.

"Dean," he mumbled. "How . . . here?"

In the light of the flashlight, Dean looked as pale as a ghost. "Dad knew about the mine, we headed here straight away. It took us a while to clear the entrance out."

Sam felt his head roll a little bit, and his eyes close.

"No, Sam, stay awake," Dean said sharply. "We need to get you out, but you have to be able to tell us if anything changes."

John came over, kneeling down by Sam's head. "I've called 911 to a nearby address, if we need them, they'll be close."

"Here we go, Sam. Talk to us, kiddo."

Sam's mind was roaming. He babbled, "got the bone, burned. Dark, so dark. Dean, I need to wash my socks, can't forget that."

Dean hand swept over the crown of his head.

"Dad, why's he talking like this? He hasn't hit his head." Dean's voice was high in terror.

"Shock. Dean, keep him talking."

Sam felt one of the heavier rocks shift on his foot. He whimpered in pain, and Dean grasped his hand, face close to Sam's.

"Sammy, what's your test on tomorrow?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but the rock on his chest moved, and he screamed in pain until he was gone.

* * *

Sam stared at Dean's face. It looked pale and drawn.

He awkwardly reached over, poking Dean in the nose. Dean had been practicing for months now to wake up like a hunter was supposed to—on the defensive, ready to fight—but only managed to yelp and roll out of bed.

"Dean?"

Sam tried to sit up to look at him, but gasped as his chest pulsed painfully.

"You little idiot. You scared me half to death." Dean hovered over him, quickly running his hands over Sam and checking him.

"Made it out," Sam mumbled. "Didn't really expect that."

Dean's hand brushed his forehead. "You have a couple busted ribs. You're at high risk for pneumonia right now, so you have to make sure you breathe deeply."

"Mmm." Sam rolled his head on the pillow until his face was cradled in Dean's palm. "My foot?"

"One's a little sprained. The other's broken. You're gonna be laid up for a while."

"My test . . ."

"I'll call the school."

Sam blinked a little. "Where's Dad?"

Dean's smile became brittle. "He had to get some research done on the other haunting."

It should have been expected, but it still managed to make something hurt, deep inside.

"Drink some water." Dean tilted Sam's head up. "You're stuck with me playing nursemaid, so no complaints."

Sam arched an eyebrow. "No complaints? That's impossible. You're smelly and you make terrible hot chocolate."

Dean deliberately tipped the cup too far, making Sam splutter.

"I'm an awesome Florence Nightingale, I'll have you know," he said.

Sam waited for his key moment before swiping the water and upending it on Dean's head.

The laughter was totally worth making his chest ache. Dad was gone, Sam was injured pretty badly, but at least he had Dean.

* * *

 **A/N:** I am so behind on everything in real life but managed to find the time to write this little thing for the ohsam prompt. So many good prompts, so little time.


End file.
